“Hello, there!” the man in uniform called out.  It was Captain McCann, chief of the Far Harbor police.

Mr. Cooke waved his cigar politely.

“Is that Mr. Cooke’s yacht, the Maria?

“The same,” said Mr. Cooke.

“I’m fearing I’ll have to come aboard you, Mr. Cooke.”

“All right, old man, glad to have you,” said my client.

This brought a smile to McCann’s face as he got into his boat.  We were all standing in the cockpit, save the Celebrity, who was just inside of the cabin door.  I had time to note that he was pale, and no more:  I must have been pale myself.  A few strokes brought the chief to the Maria’s stern.

“It’s not me that likes to interfere with a gent’s pleasure party, but business is business,” said he, as he climbed aboard.

My client’s hospitality was oriental.

“Make yourself at home, old man,” he said, a box of his largest and blackest cigars in his hand.  And these he advanced towards McCann before the knot was tied in the painter.

Then a wave of self-reproach swept over me.  Was it possible that I, like Mr. Trevor, had been deprived of all the morals I had ever possessed?  Could it be that the district attorney was looking calmly on while Mr. Cooke wilfully corrupted the Far Harbor chief-of-police?  As agonizing a minute as I ever had in my life was that which it took McCann to survey those cigars.  His broad features became broader still, as a huge, red hand was reached out.  I saw it close lingeringly over the box, and then Mr. Cooke had struck a match.  The chief stepped over the washboard onto the handsome turkey-red cushions on the seats, and thus he came face to face with me.

“Holy fathers!” he exclaimed.  “Is it you who are here, Mr. Crocker?” And he pulled off his cap.

“No other, McCann,” said I, with what I believe was a most pitiful attempt at braggadocio.

McCann began to puff at his cigar.  Clouds of smoke came out of his face and floated down the wind.  He was so visibly embarrassed that I gained a little courage.

“And what brings you here?” I demanded.

He scrutinized me in perplexity.

“I think you’re guessing, sir.”

“Never a guess, McCann.  You’ll have to explain yourself.”

McCann had once had a wholesome respect for me.  But it looked now as if the bottom was dropping out of it.

“Sure, Mr. Crocker,” he said, “what would you be doing in such company as I’m hunting for?  Can it be that ye’re helping to lift a criminal over the border?”

“McCann,” I asked sternly, “what have you had on the, tug?”

Force of habit proved too much for the man.  He went back to the apologetic.

“Never a drop, Mr. Crocker.  Upon me soul!”

This reminded Mr. Cooke of something (be it recorded) that he had for once forgotten.  He lifted up the top of the refrigerator.  The chief’s eye followed him.  But I was not going to permit this.